


The Cellist

by QuizzicalQuinnia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cellos, F/M, PWOP, p with a little p
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 14:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2471969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuizzicalQuinnia/pseuds/QuizzicalQuinnia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Philharmonic director Jaime Lannister wants to bang the cellist. Moody banging ensues. That's pretty much it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cellist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ikkiM](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikkiM/gifts).



> For Mikki who has beta'd nearly everything of mine, and who worked like a frickin dog during appreciation week to get OTP out there. You are a wonder! To you, I present the gift of fucking, complete with an ellipsis...

Beautiful banner by the lovely [Ro Nordman](http://ro-little-shop-of-wonders.tumblr.com/post/100333104339/philharmonic-director-jaime-lannister-wants-to)

 

The horsehair bow is a sword she wields to enslave each note. She holds the thin wooden frog between muscular fingers, almost delicately, though he sees the force behind each motion and wishes he were the cello she so fiercely dominates.

He doesn’t know what piece she plays, there on the stage. He has committed her repertoire to memory, but this night, all he hears is the rushing of his own blood. The stage manager had wanted to flood her in yellow-tinted light to illuminate the warm wood of her cello, but he had insisted on blue. Perched on her narrow stool, wearing a black dress only by the demand of tradition, she isn’t blinded by the bright light. Her eyes haven’t opened once as her body rocks with the motion of rhythm.

He decides she looks like myth. No one like her could be real. Her freckled arms are bare since she will suffer no constriction of any kind, not when she plays. They are bare, and they reflect the blue light as if the moon itself stood behind her to watch her weave magic.

Sometimes, she is stillness. These notes are meant for sweetness, and he can tell when they happen as the long column of her porcelain neck tilts back as if a wave were washing over her.

Sometimes, she is violence. Her shoulders stiffen to support the frantic movements of her wrists as they hack notes to pieces. She turns red with these, her lips twisting, her brow furrowing until she sucks in a breath with the next movement.

He stands on the stage in the shadows, not with her in the light. She is the prize who enchants every anonymous face in the audience, the only time she allows herself to be truly seen. He is the treasure seeker. He found her in the dim halls of the conservatory. She’d been too shy to shine in front of anyone, but not him. He’d coaxed her like a wounded animal, trailing insults and compliments like breadcrumbs just to gain any reaction at all.

He’d wanted her for the philharmonic. As the director, he would have fired every cellist in the city to get her, but it hadn’t taken that much. Just a bit of coaxing.

He’d wanted her for himself. That had happened quickly. It had surprised him, but only until the first time she’d played on a real stage. His stage. She’d lit up everything with the sounds she’d forced from her heart into a piece of wood. She’d been the night sky full of stars, and there was no one who could deny her beauty when she played.

She’s better tonight, the best she’s ever been. He should feel smug about that, but he’s too occupied with wanting her. She is glory bathed in light and sound.

It’s almost over now. He sees the way she draws the bow back at a different angle. She’s readying herself for that final note, to make it a lasting wound so no one will forget her. The note is there and gone, and she lowers her bow to touch the floor, slumping with exhaustion.

He wants to move to her side, to carry her away before the audience awakens from the dream she’s woven and claps thunder to overwhelm her. It’s already starting, that one brave or self-important soul beginning it all.

He remains. The conductor struts from the other side of the stage, adding his own applause to the mix, though no one could distinguish it, then he flips the tails of his black peacock coat outward and grabs her hand.

Her bow clatters to the floor, and she opens her eyes. He knows she’s startled, that the idea of being on the stage will have escaped her. She will have forgotten what she was doing and why, until it rushes back to make her clutch herself together in mortification. He hates that part, that she doesn’t see how astonishing she is. 

Her gaze remains on her cello until it snaps to where he stands, and he feels burned inside by the glow of blue. The conductor makes her rise and bow a little. She is awkward about it. She doesn’t look at anyone, just at him. Not the conductor, _him_.

She is made to bow again, and then she drags her hand away. The crew will care for her forgotten bow and her beloved cello. They will pack it up in velvet until she breathes life into it again. She leaves it behind and moves toward him.

It takes an age, a planetary revolution, and then she’s there with her body towering over all she has conquered. She knows he wants her. She has to. He isn’t hiding any of it.

“You are the most magnificent thing, Brienne Tarth,” he exhales.

She doesn’t smile. She’s almost shaking from her weariness and the crowd’s reaction. But she looks at him. She can see everything.

“If you follow me, you know what will happen.” His words are a promise and a warning.

He turns immediately, moving along the path backstage to the stairwell door. He’s already up a flight when it echoes shut, and he pauses for a split second to gauge how alone he is in the cold space. There is the click of a step down below. He moves on, rushing up stair after stair, but he doesn’t run out of breath which is unexpected considering the thunderous beat of his heart.

He isn’t sure how he feels about her following him. He wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything, but he’s afraid. He’s terrified of overwhelming her just by giving in. If the audience below and their love for the music she makes can cause her hands to shake, what will he do to her when they reach the top where nothing will stand between them?

Her steps quicken. She’s gaining ground, and then he doesn’t care about fear. She didn’t hesitate to follow him. She has to know what he will take from her and how much more he will give.

He bursts through the door to the upper level, where offices and practice rooms look out over the city. There is one down the hall, where she first played once he’d won her over. The piece she’d chosen had been seductive, though he wasn’t sure she’d known that.

She knows it now. She plays it all the time to torment him, he’s sure. He moves into the practice room and swears it smells like her. It takes him a moment to understand that her scent of soap and woodsy rosin floods his mind because she _is_ there, just behind him as her hand eases the door closed. She snaps the lock.

He whirls around and banishes the space between them with a few strides. Her back crashes into the door as he claims her mouth after so much time eaten by longing. He is a predator, he is a pit of fire endlessly hungry. His lips move against hers, his hand wraps around her neck with fingers tangling in her hair. He pulls her to him so she can feel his want.

She opens her lips. It’s purposeful, he knows, because she grasps his face between palms coated in bow dust. Her hands are so strong, but she is gentle, drawing his face closer. Her tongue tangles with his. He might be dreaming, he thinks. She wouldn’t be so sure of herself if he were awake.

He lets himself dream until he can’t breathe, and he pulls back. He has to see her eyes. They are her own cleansing blue, peering at him with expectation. It’s her scent, he decides, that makes this real. Soap and rosin, and musk. He’s never smelled that before, couldn’t dream that. Her body is heat like his. He doesn’t have to dream anymore.

He wraps his arms around her until his thigh is wedged between hers, and he pulls her flush and kisses her with a passion to match her music. That’s how he will play. Her body will be his instrument.

She winds herself around him without hesitation. She wants him, too. He pulls her farther into the small room, to the window that forms one entire wall. She’d sat in front of it to play that first time. He’d thought the sun streaming inside made the blue of her eyes even more beautiful. It’s the moon now, and its elegant silver light is even better.

The window is cold through the back of his jacket. He breaks from her lips, moving to the pale skin of her neck as he peels the jacket off, and his tie. Her fingers fumble at the buttons of his shirt. She tugs it free and manages to get it off, though he thinks the bottom button might have popped off from the force.

Her arms wrap around his shoulders as he finds a sensitive spot at the end of her collarbone. He knows that bones are not particularly seductive, but he loves the way her collarbone curves beneath her skin. He runs his tongue along the length of it as she shudders. He keeps his hands busy with the zipper of her dress. Down and down he pulls it until the black fabric pools around her waist leaving her bare.

The feel of her skin against his is almost too much. He’s so hard it’s painful, and he knows she feels him against her thigh. She drops one hand to take pity, stroking him through his trousers. An unfamiliar growl arises from his throat just before he takes her mouth for the third or hundredth time. He isn’t sure, he just wants her lips and her tongue, and he has them.

He shoves her dress completely down, hearing its soft fall to the floor as he palms the skin it exposes. He bites her bottom lip and stares straight into her wide eyes as he slides the cotton scrap of her underwear away.

“Jaime, please…” she mumbles, barely making any sound.

All he hears is his name. She rarely says it, only when she’s serious. He could come from hearing it spoken now. He kisses her lips and her cheek, her neck, her shoulder. He nips at the velvet skin above her breast and sucks her nipple hard until unintelligible phrases pour from her. He likes how he can feel the rise and fall of her heavy breathing inside his own chest.

He wants to feel the muscles of her back against him. They have always fascinated him, the way they tense as she coaxes music from her cello. He spins her until she faces the window. Her palms flatten against the glass, her small, perfect breasts cupped in his palms, made to fit there. It makes her arch her back, pressing into him the way he wants, and he snakes a hand down to test her. The heat of her cunt scalds his flesh as he revels in her hiss of pleasure. He can see their reflection, like ghosts living in the glass. She sees, too, and watches with him and meets his gaze. One finger inside her makes her roll her head back on his shoulder, two and she clenches around him, almost done, almost bringing him with her.

He can’t wait anymore. He fumbles like a novice to lower his zipper and drag his trousers down, kicking them away somewhere, and then there’s nothing between them. He wraps an arm around her, just below her breasts, and uses his other hand to tease her wet folds, drawing gasps from her as he presses his cock inside. The roaring in his head magnifies, his breathing grows ragged. One quick thrust and he’s buried in her heat, and he bites her shoulder not as gently as he wanted. It makes her clench around him.

He thrusts for a minute, but it’s not enough. He has to see her eyes. He pulls out as she complains, but he turns her again so they are face to face, eye to eye, and she knows. She sees everything. She kisses him roughly as he holds her hips for a moment, just enough to fall into her again, and thrust, and lift her leg to wrap around his hip, and thrust. There, against the glass, he burns with her, grabs at whatever skin he can find, takes his mouth to wherever he can reach. She wants his lips and takes them until she cries out his name as brands him with her body, tightening around him in waves. He is hers, but he knows that already.

He pours himself into her with a final push, shaking and resting his forehead in the crook of her neck. She is wonder and she is light. Her hands soothe him, her fingers gliding over his back as if he were her cello. He has to kiss her. He has no energy for it, but he has to, so he does. It’s a lazy, deep thing, a slow nocturne.

When it breaks, he brushes his nose against hers and whispers, “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

She kisses him, and he lets her do what she wants because he has no breath. Her words are shaky and sedate. “You have me for however long you want.”

“You might be afraid of my reply.” He gazes at her with the intensity he’s never allowed himself before.

She shakes her head, just a little. “Only if you tell me it’s already over.”

“I will never say that.” He kisses her deeply to say it again, and then he grins because he’s feeling heavy and light at the same time. “This is a practice room, you know.”

There is a spark in her beautiful eyes, and she presses against him. “Time to play?”

“It will always be time to play.”

 

 


End file.
